


Fear Wakes You Up

by smoakmonster



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Divergent Fusion, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Arrow AU, Dauntless Faction, F/M, Inspired by Divergent, olicity - Freeform, olicity au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoakmonster/pseuds/smoakmonster
Summary: In a world divided into factions, being Divergent means certain death. For years, Oliver has hidden his terrible secrets–masking his own Divergence within the chaos of Dauntless, covering up the sins of his father’s past that mark his body beneath tattoos, and pushing himself to overcome his nightmares through endless simulations. He’s biding his time until he can somehow save his sister back in Abnegation. But everything changes the day a new batch of transfers arrive. The day he meets her.#FearlessFridays





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scu11y22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scu11y22/gifts).



> Dedicated to: @scu11y22, because I know we share a love of both stories. You are always so supportive of my writing in general. Consider this fic a big thank you for all your encouragement :D
> 
> ***
> 
> Welcome to Fearless Fridays!!
> 
> I am very excited to bring you all this new series! I will be updating this fic every Friday. I have written a few chapters ahead, so I am going to try my very best to keep to a weekly posting schedule.
> 
> You do not have to read/watch the Divergent series in order to enjoy this fic, though the first book/movie might help you predict where some of the plot is going. I am going to try to give you readers as much world-building explanation as is necessary to understand the context of this Dystopian world and to understand where Oliver and Felicity are coming from and why they make the choices that they do. 
> 
> The first chapter might be a bit confusing, because I like to keep things mysterious in the beginning. But just hang with me, because there will be answers in the coming chapters. Additionally, the tags and character list will be updated as we progress through the story.
> 
> Well then...here is the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

_Fear, you don't own me._  
_There ain't no room in this story._  
_And I ain't got time for you_  
_Telling me what I'm not_  
_Like you know me._  
_Well, guess what?_  
_I know who I am._  
_I know I'm strong, brave, a_ _nd I am free._  
_Got my own identity._  
_So fear, you will never be welcome here._

_~Francesca Battistelli_

 

* * *

 

She trembles as he helps her out of the net. Her small frame melts easily into his touch. She’s _clinging_ to him, he realizes, her careful fingers curling into his shirt. For a moment, he honestly doesn’t know what to make of this girl placing her silent trust in a complete stranger. He’s no more of an alien to her than anyone else here, he supposes, but then…no other initiate has ever _wanted_ to hold on to him this long before.

He expects her to scramble away as soon as her feet touch the solid ground. (The new ones always run from him, which is why Slade insists on his being the first face they see after the jump. Slade loves to terrify the naive transfers as much as Oliver loves to be left alone, so his reluctant position works in both their favors.)

Except she doesn’t run from him.

She _lingers_ by his side, leaning into him slightly, like she needs him to help keep her upright.

By all accounts, she seems completely ordinary. And yet, her bright appearance is such a sharp contrast to this bleak pit. Shrouded in sky-blue fabric and with long, blonde hair pulled back into a loosening ponytail, she is a vision of gold and blue, as though heaven itself has fallen into hell. She looks up at him with clear blue eyes that match her clothes, drawing him in…. Behind simple frames, her eyes are steady and surprisingly calm, despite her body still shaking with the aftershocks of her jump. She watches him in an open, unguarded way that leaves him slightly uneasy, a familiar feeling whenever he’s in the presence of an Erudite. She definitely has the Erudite countenance.

He can’t help but watch her in return.

Other transfers arrive in his peripheral vision. Oliver does a running count and realizes she jumped fifth. Five out of ten. Right in the middle, blending in, not quite daring but not completely cowardly.

She’s too ordinary to be worth noticing, neither a threat nor a target. So why is he noticing her?

Every instinct he’s had beaten into him--literally--over a lifetime goes numb. For just one terrible, helpless, wonderfully _normal_ moment, he loses himself in her gaze; he lets himself see her as a person and not as a transfer. His first mistake.

And then it’s over in a blink, in the amount of time it takes for her look to shift. And he knows this new look, too. _Curiosity_. She’s just as intrigued by him as he is by her, only she wears her thoughts far too openly for his comfort. That kind of blatant, Erudite interest will only get her killed here.

Worrying about her safety is enough to push him, thankfully, back into his training.

Oliver takes a quick step backwards, putting a finite, intentional distance between them. “Welcome to Dauntless,” he tells her coolly, habitually, because it’s his job to say so.

“Thank you.” Her voice is quiet but strong, certain.

The words startle him a little, because no one here ever actually thanks him for anything, let alone for something as routine as a greeting into purgatory. It’s been years since he’s heard the soothing words. Five years this very day, to be exact. _Thank you._ When he replays them over in his head later, they wash over him like the warm cider his mother secretly indulged in making him and Thea once every New Year. A pang shoots through his chest, reminding him of the life he left behind when he made the same choice to abandon everything he knew.

He never regrets that decision until the day a new batch of transfers arrive.

And of everything about this new life he finds repulsive, this is the part he remains most disgusted by. Pretending to be glad that more naive, though daring, transfers will have to endure all forms of agony in order to prove themselves worthy of staying.

And as his gaze sweeps over her small and clearly _unfit_ figure, she looks like the very antithesis of a warrior. Why did _she_ choose to come here?

And why should he care?

She is no different than all the other kids he sees pass in and out of this cavern each year, from one faction to the factionless, never to be seen again. He may only be a few years older himself, but he’s seen and done things--things she also will be forced to do if she wants to survive--to put a lifetime between them.

Something in his look sparks something in hers, like she can read his thoughts. In the next breath, she straightens her spine a little and tips her head, sending him a defiant yet patient challenge, as though waiting for him to explain himself. So very Erudite, he almost smiles.

Only Erudite is not her home anymore. And he has to remind her of that fact. If not him, someone else much more merciless will.

Impulsively, he reaches up to remove her glasses. Though he pulls gently, the legs of the frames catch a few strands of golden hair, sending them loose around her face. Immediately, she looks even more vulnerable without glasses, though no less intelligent. And already he fears the worst for her. She won’t survive this place. She’ll break quickly in training. For her sake, he just hopes it’ll be a clean, easy break in the end.

“What’s your name?” he asks, already wary to know the answer. If he’s going to lose her, it’s best not to get too attached.

She hesitates, licking her lips, but eventually declares herself to be “Megan.”

_Megan._

He frowns. That name feels wrong for her, and somehow he knows it’s false, though he is in no position to judge. He has no right to question her identity, any more than he has a right to question her choice to be here. Still, he cannot help the slow burn inside him that itches to learn her real name.

 

* * *

 

 

He has the terrible privilege of sitting next to her at dinner, since he is, as per usual, assigned to training the transfers.

There are times when Oliver still feels like an impostor in this faction, and meals are often those times. Crammed in between Megan and another Erudite transfer he hasn’t bothered to learn the name of, Oliver can’t help but feel...trapped.

 _Claustrophobic_.

One of his fears.

The whole premise of Dauntless is that in order to overcome fear (and by extension, one’s inner evil), one must first identify the fear. Yet Oliver wonders if sometimes labeling a fear does more to exacerbate it than to solve it. Once they get inside, rarely do fears ever go away. Fears take a lifetime to overcome, or so the Dauntless elite will say. Some of the best liars are Dauntless, though, calling into question the very bravery they advocate for so strongly.

Is this entire faction based on a lie?

It wouldn’t be the only one.

It’s easy to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. It’s easy to let your anger turn you into someone else...something else. But does that make you brave?

Honesty is brave. Kindness is brave. And yes, selflessness is especially brave.

If only he could get Slade and the others to understand that, that maybe forcing people into splinters of themselves is not the answer for peace.

Or maybe he’s only thinking this way because...it would make his life so much simpler, so much _easier_ if that were true. Maybe he’s always been self-serving, at his core, and that’s the real reason he left home.

Whether it’s the echoing cacophony of too many voices or the oppressive weight of being surrounded by this many people on all sides, Oliver’s stomach churns with agitation. He forces himself through the overcooked hamburger. He has to keep up his strength. And he has to keep up appearances.

Still, he hasn’t suffered through five years of simulations for nothing. At the very least he can repress his more adverse reactions to fear. He has to distract himself.

Unfortunately, conversation with a bunch of cheery, babbling transfers is one of his least favorite pastimes. But it beats the alternative, having a full-on panic attack in the middle of the dining hall, proving once and for all to himself, and to Slade, that he really is just an Abnegation boy in black clothing who got lucky enough to have the least number of fears of everyone in his cohort.

Oliver pulls himself out of the sanctuary of his own thoughts just in time to hear Megan laugh in response to Curtis, another Erudite transfer. While the two are complete opposites in terms of physicality, they share a common language and seem very familiar with one another. Feigning indifference, Oliver listens in part fascination and part confusion to the energetic, never-ending strings of words rapid-firing between them. The Erudites are always a fountain of information, usually unwarranted and unwanted. But Curtis and Megan are different. Their conversation, albeit superfluous, seems natural and friendly, not for the sake of showing off.

While Oliver has spent ample time in the control room at Dauntless and is familiar, at least in principle, with the mechanics of what they’re referring to, he still has trouble keeping up. Not for the first time, Oliver is reminded that, despite his initial uncertainty about becoming a Dauntless, at least he knows he would never have made it as an Erudite.

_Preprocessor._

_Biometric algorithm._

He tries to commit the words to memory to look up later. He shouldn’t want to know, but he does.

During the rare lulls in conversation (apparently even Erudites need to stop to breathe), Megan lets out a soft sigh, almost a chuckle. Oliver likes her laugh, he realizes. It’s pure and vibrant and...real.

But like all of Dauntless society, the moment of reprieve is fleeting.

Suddenly the large room grows still and quiet, which can only mean one thing. Dauntless leaders.

A moment later, Oliver’s suspicions are confirmed as Slade saunters into sight with the valor of a ravenous tiger, flaunting his new authority proudly. The two men make eye contact across the room and subtly, just so Oliver notices at first, Slade shifts course, making a beeline for his table.

Great. Slade is clearly wasting no time this year, coming to terrorize the new transfers already.

Oliver senses the shift in all members at the table as Slade arrives, like prey cowering before their predator. There are degrees of bravery within Dauntless, however, something these new ones will learn soon enough, and inherently disliking Slade does not necessarily make one a coward.

“Hey, Kid,” says Slade in a dark, raspy voice.

Oliver swallows down his own discomfort. He hates that nickname.

Even though he and Slade joined Dauntless the same year, ever since Slade’s new promotion, he’s been treating his former compatriots with more disdain than usual. Slade never could resist cheap power or the chance to lord it over someone else, especially him, the former Stiff. Though Oliver and Slade’s mutual distrust goes much deeper than that.

They were friends once.

Before the final stage.

Before Shado.

“Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?” asks Slade.

Oliver waves nonchalantly. The more he pretends to not care about them, the better for all parties. “This is Megan and Curtis and…”

Oliver glances to the tall Erudite next to him, who thankfully takes the hint and fills in the silence. “I’m Ray. Ray Palmer,” he says, smiling brightly. Too brightly. He holds out his hand enthusiastically for Slade to take, but Slade ignores it.

“Last names don’t matter here,” answers Slade, gruff as always.

Then he turns and fixes his gaze on Megan, and an entirely new chill slips down Oliver’s spine. Uncontrollably, he feels his muscles tense, bracing for...what exactly?

This is the Dauntless way.

Or at least, the new way.

Learning to overcome or brush off intimidation is necessary for survival here. But Oliver has never appreciated the underlying, cancerous Dauntless doctrine of pushing down those weaker than you in order to build yourself up. Maybe it’s the residual Abnegation still inside him, but aren’t the Dauntless supposed to protect the weak?

And the way Slade looks at Megan...it’s like she is what he plans to eat for dinner; Oliver can only imagine what Megan is thinking. It’s unsettling. And while it’s always unsettling to watch in silent horror every time Slade assesses the new, weaker transfers in this way, the way he’s looking at Megan is particularly troubling, though Oliver can hardly fathom why.

She is just a transfer. She is just another girl from Erudite. And yet there is...something about her.

It’s both a blessing and a curse, the way she draws Slade’s attention. The same way she draws his. She is the moth, and they are the flame. But what Oliver simply wants to illuminate with his light, Slade seeks to destroy.

Megan clearly senses it, too, because her back straightens a little the longer Slade stares.

Good. Already she’s trying to hide her weakness. Slade will view that positively. And then maybe he’ll leave her alone.

“Well, a lovely little thing like you...we’ll see how long you last here,” sneers Slade.

Megan presses her lips tightly together, seemingly fighting some inner reaction. Though Megan doesn’t shrink under his words, she remains silent, and her silence is either a show of strength or a tool to avoid showing weakness. The training stages will soon reveal which.

Talking back to authority is not a punishable offense here, not like in Abnegation. And yet, Dauntless leadership, for all their preaching about bravery, do not reward blatant disobedience. If they did, there would be anarchy. There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity, after all.

In a blink, Slade returns his attention to Oliver, back to ignoring the initiates as though they are beneath him. And in the eyes of Dauntless, they technically are. “So, Kid, am I to understand that Calc has been trying to meet with you and you’ve refused?”

Oliver shrugs. “I’m just not interested in what he has to say. Haven’t been for two years.”

Slade chuckles, but it rings hollow. No one else at the table smiles. “Well, maybe the old man will finally take the hint this year.” Slade slaps Oliver on the shoulder and then walks away, leaving a much-relieved table in his wake.

“Sheesh, what is that guy’s deal?” says Curtis.

“Are the two of you...friends?” asks Megan. Her voice is tentative, but her eyes are strong, determined.

Oliver supplies only the minimum information necessary. “We were in the same initiate class. He’s Dauntless born and bred.”

“And what about you? Have you always been a Dauntless, too, or were you a transfer?”

Oliver stiffens, avoiding her gaze. “And here I was thinking I was only going to have to deal with inquisitive Candors.”

“Obviously you know very little about my fa...my _former_ faction. And it must be because you're so approachable. You know, like a cactus. Or a supervirus.”

She talks too much for her own good, Oliver decides. And yet, something in her tone has him locking his sights on hers at the last second. Slade isn’t the only one who can use stares to his advantage. And the same tactics yield the same results. She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t retreat. And he’s met with the awful depth of unfiltered blue eyes.

“Careful, Megan,” he warns.

She swallows, her cheeks turning a faint shade of red, but it’s a minimal response, all things considered. Trained Dauntless soldiers have often quivered under this look before.

She has gumption.

Maybe there is hope for her after all.  

They finish the rest of their meal in meticulous, awkward silence. Oliver avoids making eye contact with anyone else, but he can’t ignore the buzzing awareness that hums beneath his skin being so near to her. It’s the claustrophobia. It has to be.

Soon enough, she and the others get up and exit the dining hall, leaving Oliver comfortably seated at the big table all alone, the way he prefers it. At least, that’s the way he used to prefer it. Only the new transfers seem to have left something behind in their absence.

For the first time in a long time, Oliver feels something he shouldn’t feel, something he hasn’t _allowed_ himself to feel.

Loneliness.

Here he is, surrounded by all members of his “kind,” a fellow soldier among soldiers, and he has never been more aware of how isolated he has become. While he is admired and respected and perpetually pursued for job offers that he turns down again and again, he lives on an island of his own making.

But isn’t that the way he prefers it? He doesn’t even _want_ friends. Does he? And where is this sudden awareness and desire for human connection even coming from?

Surely it doesn’t have to do with the arrival of another round of innocent transfers. Disappointments and losses just waiting to happen.

Maybe a person can only endure so much self-directed isolation before snapping--even someone like him--someone too different to belong anywhere. Too good at everything and nothing. Too unpredictable to be safe. Isn’t that why he’s pushed people away for as long as he has?

What other choice is there?

If people knew the truth about him...they would be lining up to kill him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Welcome back to Fearless Fridays!
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind responses to the first chapter! Before diving into the next chapter, I do want to mention that you will be seeing more familiar faces from Arrow in this chapter and in future chapters.
> 
> In my writing, I am discovering that many of these characters could belong to multiple factions. (And isn’t that kind of the point of the book series?) Thus, there may be a character whom I have assigned to a particular faction, and you may disagree with that decision. That is totally fine!
> 
> The main focus of this story is Oliver and Felicity and their immediate families, and I believe I have done my best to remain as true to their characters as this AU allows. Thus, I didn’t spend too much time worrying about whether a secondary character “belongs” to one faction over another. I’ve included additional characters from Arrow, because frankly I needed more characters! LOL. Plus, I figured it would be easier/more fun to use the characters we all know and love. I hope all this makes sense, and I hope you enjoy seeing how certain characters react in the Dauntless environment. Thanks again for reading!

The halls of Dauntless are deep and winding, a relentless maze of tunnels that carry a strong aroma of iron and earth. Once, during a laboratory exercise when she was thirteen, Megan was allowed to watch the process of a nail super-rusting thanks to an induction technique. Still, even inside its glass covering, a brief whiff of the sharp rust odor had leaked out. This place smells a bit like that, only more potent, more overwhelming, more dangerous.

Her senses are on overdrive here--the soles of her feet feel every crevice in the uneven surface beneath her; her ears pick out every pebble that breaks away and tumbles down the cavern wall; and her nose is keenly aware of the earthy surroundings, even as her eyes are still adjusting to the darkness.

Living without her glasses is a bizarrely freeing experience, like a weight she never even realized she was carrying has been lifted.

Technically, Megan has never needed glasses to actually see--though her vision blurs at a certain distance--but wearing them is all part of the Erudite culture, something she’d grown used to. Everyone in Erudite wears glasses, whether they need them or not. No one in her old faction questions why anyone wears them. They only question you, shun you, if you don’t. People in Erudite automatically assume you have a lower I.Q. if you don’t wear glasses. And having a low I.Q. among intellectuals obsessed with the pursuit of knowledge is the textbook definition of an outsider.

Unlike Abnegation and Amity, who apparently value the inner heart (or so she has read), the Erudite are obsessed with the external, with maintaining an orderly and pristine environment, and that includes one’s own physical appearance.

The only thing on the inside the Erudite truly value is the brain. And thankfully, Feli-- _Megan_ (she’s still having trouble thinking of herself as Megan) has always had that going for her. Until now.

Each faction has its own institutionalized way of doing this, but so far everything about Dauntless seems to be the opposite of who she is...as an Erudite and as a person. Whereas her instincts have taught her to thrive on routine and predictability, Dauntless is liberating and chaotic. The rules here are few and sloppy and don’t always seem to apply. Even the way leaders are selected here doesn’t make any sense--people like Slade don’t become leaders based on age, experience, or expertise, but rather simply by brute strength and what else? The ability to run a knife over your palm and not flinch? The ability to jump into perilous darkness without question?

This place is borderline anarchistic, with only one law superseding all other forms of behavior: _be brave._

She has yet to ascertain what the means exactly. Is bravery something that comes from within? Or is it pushed on you by circumstance?

And, while it seems silly, without her glasses she feels even more vulnerable and cowardly.

After breakfast the morning after jumping into the net, Megan and her fellow transfers go to the training area as directed.

The training room is just a large, empty warehouse with concrete floors and no windows, with dozens of punching bags hanging by chains from the high ceiling, an old chalkboard situated on the wall, and a large circular ring planted in the center of the room. The ring is the only space well lit, covered in half a dozen spotlit beams that project down from the ceiling.

Megan swallows as she takes it all in--the raw emptiness of this place, the disheartening lack of technology, the haunting, singular focus on the ring in the middle of the room. It’s clear where the Dauntless priorities lie.

Without warning, a door across with room flies open with a thud, and in strolls their instructor Oliver. Though stroll might be too casual of a word. He advances with the prowess of a jungle cat, calm yet fierce, like he’s preparing for battle and not just...a normal training session. At least she hopes that’s what this is.

The closer Oliver gets to the group, the more uneasy Megan grows. Uncontrollably, her hands tingle with warmth. She can still feel the strength of his hands as he helped her out of the net yesterday and a lifetime ago. She can still picture his attentive eyes briefly wandering to her lips as she gave him her new name.

She knows she’s staring now, but she can’t help it. When Oliver turns briefly to deposit a black bag on a wooden table, she studies his profile, refamiliarizing herself with his sandy brown hair and scruff coating his tight jaw. She’s never seen a boy with facial hair before, and it’s kind of fascinating. He must be quite a bit older.

“The first thing you will learn here is how to win a fight,” Oliver announces, slowly making eye contact with each transfer. When his gaze lands on Megan, she swallows. But then it’s over in a blink, and he’s moved on to the next person. Does he even remember her? Or is she just another blue blur in a long line of transfers he’s seen come and go many times?

While Oliver doesn’t yell, his voice is deep and steady and easily captures the room’s attention. Whoever Oliver is, he’s clearly built for this sort of thing. Even his name sounds powerful to her. “Today we’ll begin weapon’s training and develop your hand-to-hand combat. The fact that you are here means that I don’t have to teach you how to mount or dismount a moving train.”

Megan shudders when she thinks about that first leap off the train and onto the roof. She can hardly believe she even did that.

“Your first task is simple. Get past me, and ring that bell.” Oliver turns and points to a small silver bell suspended beneath a raised wood platform about 10 yards behind him.

“Wait, I thought there was going to be some sort of...orientation or something?” says Evelyn, a Candor transfer with dark hair, who is even smaller in stature than Megan. But Evelyn is nimble. Megan has seen her make it onto a moving train with no problem.

“Is that what the brochure promised?” says Oliver.

Curtis snickers, but immediately falls silent when Oliver shoots him a glare.

Wow okay, so clearly this guy does not have a sense of humor. Does he do everything so...intensely? Is it the Dauntless way or is it just him?

“On the line,” demands Oliver, nodding to a faded white line spray-painted on the ground that Megan didn’t notice until now.

She forces herself neither to advance nor retreat but merely to follow the crowd and obediently step behind the line. She may not know much about this place yet, but she knows enough to realize that any sudden gesture towards the line might signal to Oliver that Megan expects to go first. And she is feeling...not quite that brave yet.

Oliver places himself directly in the middle between the line and the bell; he stands tall and proud and definitely unafraid. What must it be like to be able to live so self-contained and unwavering? If the goal is to become more like him, she has a long way to go.

“Do I have a volunteer?”

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Rory, the only Amity transfer in their cohort, steps forward. “So we’re playing games now? Okay. I’ll play.”

As though shot from a canon, Rory charges at Oliver with surprising speed. He uses his body like a battering ram, ducking and pushing his head straight into Oliver’s gut. Oliver takes a step back from the force of the blow, but otherwise seems hardly caught off guard.

Rory clearly made the wrong choice. The struggle doesn’t last very long. Within seconds, Oliver tosses Rory to the ground. His body scrapes against the unforgiving concrete. As he slowly stands back up, Megan winces at the sight of a bright red streak along his forearm.

Oliver shifts back into his original stance and tilts his head, clearly unfazed. “Who’s next?”

The silence that follows is even more uncomfortable and more pronounced than before. Eventually, her friend Curtis crosses the line. Curtis is at least half a foot taller than Rory and is a good couple of inches taller than Oliver as well. If any one of them has a chance up against Oliver, it’s him.

Curtis’s approach is a bit slower and more strategic. She can tell he’s overthinking it, trying to surprise a warrior who probably knows every play in the book and maybe even invented a few.

There’s really nothing that any of them can do against a true Dauntless warrior. So how on earth are they, as out of shape amateurs, supposed to get past him? Or is this all part of Dauntless initiation? Facing what you know you can’t defeat?

Curtis finally makes a move, lunging forward, going for the neck region; but of course Oliver anticipates this and counterattacks with some sort of weird karate-chop to Curtis’s collarbone region. Curtis squints in pain as he falls to the ground, a giant crumbling before their very eyes. Oliver didn’t even have to take a step back that time.

Next up is Ray, who follows a similar pattern to Curtis, bouncing on his toes in a semi-circular circumference a few feet from Oliver, flashing a charming smile along the way. Megan rolls her eyes.

Oliver makes no move to attack offensively, Megan realizes. Everything he does is defensive and reactionary. And yet, he still seems to know what each of them will do before they do it. As Oliver takes down Ray without even breaking a sweat, Megan wonders if maybe that’s part of this intimidating lesson, too. Are they supposed to be watching a true Dauntless warrior in action, as much as they watch their fellow initiates try and fail?

Maybe she’s overthinking it, but perhaps the main goal here isn’t simply to ring the bell. What did Oliver say at the beginning? _Learn how to win a fight._ So perhaps a deeper purpose it at work here--to overcome the insurmountable, to abandon everything you think you know and give way to instinct. What are her instincts telling her exactly?

_Run away._

Megan gulps as Ray crashes to the ground, leaving her and Evelyn as the only two initiates still behind the line. If the guy easily took down two boys who are twice her size, what’s he going to do to them?

Oliver stares at her, looking somehow both bored and menacing. If she is the last to go, he will consider her the most cowardly, which can’t bode well for her future as a Dauntless. But at the moment she doesn't care. She has to be smart about this. Isn’t there a difference between bravery and stupidity? That’s what he told them yesterday, anyway.

She is no warrior. She has zero experience in hand-to-hand combat. She’s spent her entire life behind the safety of a hundred computers. If he were a computer virus, what would she be doing right now? Finding breaks in coding; looking for any trace of vulnerability and striking there. But from the looks of him, Oliver has no weaknesses. The man is a brick wall. How does she take down a brick wall without the proper equipment?

She is nothing like him. She is not built for this.

And yet she chose this.

Megan is just about to step forward, when Evelyn beats her to it, flying at Oliver like bat out of hell.

Okay so now she’s last. That’s great.

Like a frog, Evelyn leaps and wraps herself around Oliver, trying to knock him off balance. But Oliver barely even sways. He knocks her off as though she were a gnat, and Evelyn crashes on the ground with a wail.

And then there is just her.

Oliver faces Megan, fixing her with that same resolute, unyielding expression he wore for the others. Gone are the warm and curious eyes that welcomed her to Dauntless. The man who looks at her now is a dark and dangerous stranger.

And she’s supposed to take him down.

She doesn't want to do this. She has to do this.

Surely there must be some strategic advantage to going last, but what is it?

With a start, Megan has one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad thought.

While she’s never been athletic, during her allotted fifteen-minute downtime one day a couple of years ago, she and Cooper hacked into the restricted archives and watched old film footage of some “sport” where the players hit a small ball with a bat and ran around in a diamond from one white pillow to the next. The premise seemed unnecessarily complicated to her. But one thing she does recall is that sometimes the players would slide from one pillow-base-thing into the next, kicking up clouds of red dust along the way.

Licking her lips, Megan crosses the line, using those five precious seconds to finalize her haphazard plan.

While everyone else has tried to attack Oliver from the chest region or above, she is going to go for beneath his chest...right where the body splits into two legs. Yeah. That region.

It’s a below-the-belt kind of move--literally--but what other choice does she have? She’s nowhere near strong enough to take him out any other way. Her eyes do as quick and quasi-covert scan of his body. He can take it. Surely he can take it, right?

She can feel herself blushing. The sheltered Erudite part of her hopes that Oliver will interpret whatever her face is doing as apprehension. But then, another part of her, this newly awakened and proud Dauntless hopes her instructor doesn’t perceive any trace of her uncertainty shaking her down to her bones. She wants to prove herself worthy of being here. And, for some reason, she doesn’t want Oliver to look at her the way he’s been looking at the other transfers, like he’s already made up his mind to expect to be disappointed in them. All her life, she’s craved being the exception, and she still craves it now. Being here won’t change that about her.

And so, acting contrary to all her Erudite instincts, she tries to stop overthinking it and just _act_. She lunges forward, running faster than she’s ever run in her entire life.

This is crazy. Or is it Dauntless? What’s the difference?

Across the room, Oliver stands with his legs slightly bent, feet firmly planted, calmly waiting for what he no doubt thinks will be an easy take down.

She’s already winded by the time she has to make her move. At the last possible moment, Megan twists her body, mimicking what she’s watched on video a hundred times over. But what seems easy in theory turns out to be very tricky and very _painful_ in practice.

Gracelessly, she falls to the rough ground with a thud, wincing as sharp concrete scraps against her shoulder and elbow. The cold, unforgiving concrete only lets her slide an inch before she comes up short, leaving her lying helplessly below him.

Oliver gazes down at her with a hint of smirk, like he’s fighting his own amusement at seeing her make a fool of herself; the look he wears now is some mixture of impressed and pitying.

From her current vantage point, lying on her back and with him towering over her, she probably should be afraid. And yet, she’s not afraid. Not of him. What she feels when she gazes back up at him is more...intrigue and curiosity. For one terribly wonderful second that seems to stretch out for an eternity, Megan lets herself slip into familiar Erudite habits, lingering on the details that no one but her would notice. She studies the way his blue eyes turn so dark that they appear almost black, like the first taste of color on the horizon just before dawn. She hasn’t seen many sunrises, but his eyes make her want to watch one again to compare.

The longer she looks up at him, the calmer she feels. Maybe something has changed within her since she jumped off the roof and into the Dauntless net, straight into his waiting arms. She remembers the sure and gentle way those arms helped her find solid grounding again after the fall. How could the man who helped her just yesterday hurt her now? Maybe she really is foolish, but she doesn’t believe Oliver will hurt her--not because she is brave, but because he is not cruel.

But then Oliver blinks, and his look changes, hardening. One second and a lifetime have passed since she landed on the floor beneath him.

She hesitates, and it’s enough to have Oliver reaching for her. She tries to kick his left knee and misses, and by then it’s too late anyway. Her reaction time is significantly slower than his. Still, she must get partial credit for fighting back at least. It feels unnatural, but she uses what little musculature she possesses to hit him in the stomach over and over. She may as well be hitting the side of a train for all the effort it does to deter him. She’s the last one he’s fought, and he’s not even winded; she can barely get a full breath by the time he’s picked her up and tossed her a foot away, as though she is merely a marshmallow and not an entire human being.

The ground sears her backside.

But that’s nothing compared to the uncomfortable pang in her chest. It shouldn’t--she’s not the first one to succumb to loss--but it irritates her for some reason, being treated this way. Is this all there is to being Dauntless--being pushed around and feeling like you’re worthless?

She knows she’s feeling sorry for herself, but she’s embarrassed. She’s never not been good at something. None of her life experiences matter here. Why did she come here anyway? Oh, that’s right. She had no other choice. Not if she wants answers to the questions that have been haunting her all her life.

Megan quietly scuttles away from Oliver back into line to join the others, avoiding his eyes, hoping to keep the last ounce of her pride intact.

“Okay, so you’re really strong, but what does that prove?” huffs Rory. “I doubt even you could handle multiple adversaries at once.”

“I never said you had to go one at a time,” answers Oliver, unaffected. Shocking. Megan almost rolls her eyes again. Does nothing faze the guy?

Next to her, Rory and Curtis exchange a nod and then both race towards Oliver together. They may as well have saved their energy.

Megan and the rest of the transfers watch the ensuring and short-lived excitement. Rory gets to Oliver first, so Oliver swipes him with his arm. With Oliver distracted, Curtis tries to make a sneak attack from behind. But Oliver seems to anticipate this very move and manages to turn his body just in time to kick Curtis, knocking his opponent off balance. Both transfers end up on ground, groaning.

Sure, the physicality of beating two enemies at once is technically more challenging, but Oliver makes even this look easy. Megan never imagined thinking this, but the way Oliver fights is...almost graceful. The ability to defend himself has become so formulaic that it’s art. It’s mesmerizing. And Megan feels that pang in her chest again, this time with envy. What must it be like to feel so in control, so powerful, knowing that nothing can touch you?

She wants that kind of power. She’s spent her entire life fighting faceless nemeses from behind a computer screen. Now, if everything goes right, she may just learn how to survive an enemy face-to-face. That would be a nice byproduct to her primary objective in coming here.

Megan watches as Curtis helps Rory stand back up, and the two boys give each other pats on the back. She is surprised at Curtis’s quick camaraderie with an Amity. Were they talking during her turn against Oliver? Then again, aren’t they all either Dauntless or factionless at this point anyway? The lines that used to divide them don’t exist anymore--in theory at least.

“Anyone else want to try to take me two at a time?” calls Oliver.

He’s met with severe silence.

After a moment, Evelyn asks, “What is the point of this exercise anyway?”

Oliver huffs, moving toward the punching bags. Megan knows they’re punching bags, only because Ray wrote a school paper about a famous wrestler a couple of years ago. She has never seen nor used a punching bag in her life. “The _point_ is to humble you. You may be used to easy successes in your former faction, but here than can be no easy way out. As a Dauntless, you should anticipate obstacles at every turn and know how to handle them. If you always expect an easy win, you’ll be more liable to make mistakes and get yourself or others killed. The point of your training is to teach you how to overcome failure. That is a true bravery.”

Megan listens in awe to Oliver’s counsel. This isn’t just an empty, rehearsed speech for him. No one in Erudite has ever cared about anything this much. But here in Dauntless, everything apparently can be a matter of life and death.

His words convict her, and she wonders, not for the first time, which faction he belonged to originally. Last night, Curtis informed her that he heard a rumor that the Dauntless always assign a previous transfer to be the main instructor for the new transfers. If that’s true, it makes sense. Who better to teach them how to assimilate than one of their own? Yet from the way he fought and even the sure, stealthy way he carries himself, Oliver seems born to be Dauntless. He’s not from Erudite. She would remember him. And surely he didn’t come from Amity? That leaves Candor and Abnegation, and she’s skeptical about those as well. He seems too guarded to be Candor and too remarkable to be Abnegation.

“Initiation is divided into three stages,” Oliver continues. “The only way to overcome failure is to overcome cowardice, which is the failure to act in the midst of fear. In order to do that, you need to be prepared. Each stage is designed to prepare you to face your fears in a different way. The first stage is physical, the second is emotional, and the third is mental.”

Megan clings to the word _mental_. A quick flurry of hope rushes through her. She may not be the strongest person in the room or even the most emotionally stable, but if there is one type of opponent that she does know how to beat, it’s the mental kind.

“The stages are not weighed equally in determining your final rank. So it is possible, though difficult, to improve your ranking over time.”

“Ranking?” asks Ray. “What do you mean, _ranking_?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like,” says a familiar, menacing voice. All heads turn toward the door. Slade. Like Oliver, he too prowls into the room with the finesse of a great cat, only his demeanor is more like that of a lion on the hunt for a fresh carcass to devour.

A strange, tingling chill slips down Megan’s spine. Slade gives her the creeps. Yesterday, Oliver had mentioned that he and Slade were in the same initiate class, and yet Slade looks much older that Oliver. More severe. More hungry for the type of power that goes well beyond physical protection. Not to mention, whereas Oliver’s beard gives him an older appearance, Slade’s beard just makes him look scary.

“Your rankings serve two purposes,” Slade continues in his deep, rough voice, moving to stand next to Oliver, ignoring or uncaring--or perhaps even relishing--his silently terrified audience. “The first is to determine in which order you will be selected for a job after initiation. There are few... _desirable_ positions.” Slade shoots a quick look at Oliver.

The reality of Slade’s words starts to sink in so much that Megan doesn’t have time to analyze that look.

Frak. She hadn’t even thought that far ahead. Jumping onto a train and then jumping off that roof and not dying has been all the long-term planning she’s been able to accomplish thus far. She knows what she’s good at, but that doesn’t mean that by the end of the three stages her rankings will reflect her capabilities.

Then again, the type of job Slade considers desirable may differ greatly from what she or anyone else would classify as desirable.

“The second purpose is to determine which of you will stay and which of you must go. Only the top ten initiates will be made into members.”

The transfers let out a collective gasp. Slade’s sneer merely grows, as though their horror delights him. And Oliver suddenly appears very fascinated by his shoes.

“But...but that’s not fair!” cries Evelyn. “If we had known--”

“Known what?” snaps Slade, and the room falls into a hush once more. “Are you saying that if you had been privy to this information prior to the Choosing Ceremony that you would have made a different choice? Because if that is the case, you do not belong here. You should leave now. If you are really Dauntless, it won’t matter to you that you might fail. If failure frightens you, you are a coward. Isn’t that right, Kid?” Slade turns to look at Oliver, and Oliver merely nods.

Megan frowns. It’s subtle, but even Oliver looks a little more tense with Slade in the room.

“You chose us. Now we have to choose you.”

It’s an equitable idea but also upsetting. As if choosing to come here wasn’t terrifying enough. While Megan is used to competition and used to proving herself to others, she’s never had to fight to stay somewhere before. Nor has the prospect of her own success simultaneously guaranteed someone else becoming factionless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter from Felicity's POV, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as well! Let me know in the comments! Thank you, darlings :)


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Slade leaves, the whole room seems to sigh with relief. Even Oliver looks ten degrees calmer with him gone. He directs Megan and the other transfers to each stand in front of a punching bag and begin training.

All the male transfers immediately go to work, and it’s not long before the sound of fists smacking into compact sand and chains rattling overhead fills the entire warehouse. Again, Megan is struck by how _well_ Rory and Evelyn seem to know what they’re doing; their movements are swift and sure and seem well-rehearsed. Candor and Amity must offer a lot more free time to perfect any muscle other than the brain.

Megan is the last to begin, mostly because she hardly knows how to. She studies and tries to mimic the way Ray next to her twists his body into each punch. His movements are jerky and stiff at first, but after a while he finds a good rhythm.

Megan could spend her entire day overthinking this, running statistics in her mind, but at some point she just has to _act_. So she makes one shaking first and then another, and then finds whatever residual courage she has inside her that made her jump off that roof and starts really punching. It hurts in the beginning, a shock to her system. Her punches hurt more than seem to be helping her grow. The bag doesn’t even move. She has zero strength.

She increases the speed of her hits, feeling uncoordinated and inept. It’s not long before she grows winded and has to slow back down. Her hards are used to multitasking, her fingers used to being the ones in control, not curled into a tight wad, as muscles in her arms and shoulders that she’s never used in her life are forced to push and pull over and over.

Oliver paces up and down the row, his authoritative voice carrying over the constant sound of skin slapping leather. “The purpose of today’s training is to prepare your body and your mind to respond to threats or targets. After we go over technique today, you will begin fighting each other tomorrow.”

Megan stops punching. Of course. She should’ve known that they weren’t just going to be whacking inanimate objects forever. The whole point of Dauntless is to protect the rest of the factions from external threats--though what these supposed “threats” are, no one really knows. She’s heard the rumors, same as everyone else in school, but no one has ever seen anyone try to enter the compound from the outside before. Nevertheless, it’s a Dauntless prerogative. Her stomach tightens. She is going to have to learn to hit other people.

Oliver stops beside Curtis to demonstrate a few different punches. Megan catches on a little better with each transfer that he instructs. He seems to save her for last. Is he avoiding her? Is she so terrible at this Dauntless thing that he doesn’t even want to bother helping her?

When Oliver finally does stand in front of her, Megan tries to ignore him, tries to focus on making each punch land solidly. But even hovering along the outer edge of her peripheral vision, arms crossed and silent, the guy is very distracting. She glances at him a couple of times, her nerves reeling beneath his scrutiny; his detached yet evaluative gaze travels over her with a surgeon’s precision, lingering on her hands and feet and joints.

“You don’t have a lot of muscle,” he observes quietly.

She lets out a breathy laugh, though hardly feels the humor in it. “No kidding,” she huffs through her back-and-forth punches. “And it’s not exactly my fault, considering that women have a different type of metabolism than men, which doesn’t allow us”--she throws another punch--“to retain”-- _punch_ \--“as much muscle”-- _punch_ \--“as you.”

She stills, suddenly realizing what she must sound like to her instructor. Never in her life has she complained (out loud, anyway), and she doesn’t intend to start now.

“I mean, not _you_ you specifically. Just you, as a male, in general. I haven’t noticed your muscles--” She winces, feeling her cheeks redden beneath what is undoubtedly that intense, disapproving gaze of his. “I’m just gonna stop talking now.”

“That would be preferable.”

His voice sounds a lot closer, and when she dares to open her eyes, she starts, because he is standing _right_ next to her. Inexplicably, her heart thumps faster against her ribcage. The traitor. She may have stopped her workout, but the air is more stifling than it was before, like the man is suffocating her with his very presence. She doesn’t remember giving her body permission to respond to him this way. How dare it. If she didn’t suspect herself inept and uncoordinated before, she feels entirely foolish and everything small now, just by dwelling in the same sphere of existence as him, a true Dauntless. Oliver is all strength and hardness and calm self-possession, and she is...none of those things. Does he sense that she doesn’t belong here either?

Megan swallows, wishing she could hide and bury her weaknesses from him.

“You don’t have much muscle,” he repeats, as though her previous babble didn’t happen. “Which means you need to concentrate your energy on using your knees and elbows. You can put more power behind them.”

He gestures towards the bag for her to continue.

She bounces her gaze between him and the bag, waiting for him to elaborate. When he just stares back at her with that serious, indefinable gaze, she forces her body to move, feeling disconnected from her limbs, like a marionette on strings. Her movements are stiff and awkward under the weight of his harsh scrutiny.

On her next lunge, Megan filters Oliver’s words over in her head, analyzing them, trying with each strike to figure out a way to implement them into her actions. But the information her brain is processing does not quite transfer into hand-eye-coordination. If anything, the constant overthinking makes it harder for her to actually land a shot. How in the world is she going to be able to hit a real life person?

“Keep your wrists straight,” Oliver instructs.

A pang that has nothing to do with the workout flutters through her chest. It’s irrational, she knows, but she can’t help feeling just a little bit sorry for herself--at his hovering, at his constant correction. It’s not his fault she is textbook unqualified for this. He’s just trying to be helpful. It’s his job to teach her. She needs to learn to swallow her pride and just get over the fact that she is for once in her life not the best at something.

Suddenly, a hand comes up and presses against her stomach, and she forgets to breathe.

His palm is gentle yet firm, sending tingling fire out from her gut all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, branding her. Everything stops. The five hundred billion words floating around in her head vanish without a trace. Her mind has gone blank. Silent. The world around them has evaporated, and all she can see and hear and feel is Oliver.

“Most important--always keep tension here. Your core is your strength.” His voice is warm in her ear. He must want her to reply, because he waits what feels like a very long time before finally asking, “Do you understand?”

She makes herself look at him. “Yes.” She nods dumbly.

She expects him to pull back right away, but he doesn’t. And now that he is in such close proximity to her, she takes full advantage, drinking in the details of his sharp jawline, the way his hair sticks up at the crest of his head, the perplexing mix of gold flakes woven into the tips of his light brown hair that flicker against the light like the inside of copper wiring.

And of course those eyes.

She has never realized blue eyes could be so deep and enigmatic, like the sea. Not that she’s ever seen the sea in real life--only holographic images--but she has a very active imagination, so she figures it must resemble something like the maze of colors swirling in his eyes. She’s been surrounded by shades of blue all her life, but never such a unique shade so clear and piercing as _this_. She doesn’t even know what color to call them exactly--they are too bright to be sapphire, too gray to be azure, and contain too many hints of soft, ivy green to really be considered true blue. His eyes are the kind that take you by surprise, filled with layers, and, exactly like the sea, she could absolutely drown in them.

And...wait, what exactly is she thinking? She’s never allowed herself to be this distracted by a boy before. Not that Oliver is really a boy. He is definitely closer to a _man_. How much older is he than her anyway?

Megan gulps, because she has definitely been staring at her instructor for way too long to be considered proper. Then again, he’s staring right back, and she watches, fascinated, inexplicably drawn to the subtle shift brewing behind his gaze; something...not quite demanding, not quite authoritative; something softer and even more restless. He’s looking at her like she is a question that he doesn’t know how to answer.

She should probably be intimidated by him, by the unrelenting intensity of him--and a part of her is--but there’s also another part of her, a newly awakened, dare-she-even-say _Dauntless_ part of her, that is enthralled. Maybe it’s her own fantasy, but she imagines she sees her own intrigue mirrored in those sea blue eyes.

How long have then been staring at each other? Five seconds? Five minutes?

And then it’s over in a blink.

Like a wave crashing ashore, everything gets swept away, buried back beneath relentless obscurity.

Oliver blinks, and the mask of pure warrior slips back into place, an elusive veil of indifference covering his eyes, shutting her out. He detaches his hand and moves on to the next trainee, leaving her feeling cold and unsure and disquieted.

 

* * *

 

The first day of weapons training is usually mildly exciting.

Oliver remembers the strange thrill than ran through his veins the first time he held a gun. Today he gets to offer that same thrill to others, whether it’s a privilege or a curse remains to be seen.

One by one, he walks down the line, placing a gun into the foolishly open hands of these naive and inexperienced transfers. They should not be so eager to learn. They have to be eager to learn. Slade will consider any disinterest a sign of cowardice. Slade is still stubbornly unwilling to admit that sometimes it is braver not to pull the trigger.

At some point, it’s up to each individual Dauntless to decide where the boundary between cowardice and bravery lines in a single act, whether to quicken or to hold back. It’s not a choice Oliver can make for them. It’s something they must learn for themselves. But before they can make that kind of choice, they have to start somewhere.

Expecting someone who has never held a gun before to be able to shoot to kill is long and depressing journey. He doesn’t enjoy watching the innocence drain out of children. Some are naturally more adept at coping than others. Perhaps faction origin has its benefits in this case. But no one’s ever the same after firing a weapon, and for a few that can be a good thing. It makes you stronger. But for the rest...the power can become insatiable and addictive and never enough. Like what happened with Slade.

He doesn’t want to create more Slades.

But it is still his job to train involuntary soldiers who still have no idea all the horrors they are about to face; how, no matter how much training they push through, the fears never fully go away.

“To be a Dauntless, preparation is vital. Especially when facing the unknown,” Oliver says to the group, and he means it. If there is one good thing about this place, it’s this: the ability to harness control over oneself and others. Dauntless gives each member something bigger to fight for, and in so doing, teaches you how to overcome the worst parts of yourself. Dauntless saved his life.

From behind him, Curtis asks, “I’m sorry, but what exactly does firing a gun prepare us for?” The question is not an unprecedented one, but it is a naive one.

Oliver spins to find Curtis flippantly waving the weapon around like it’s a toy. White-hot frustration bursts through Oliver’s veins at the sight. They aren’t taking this seriously enough.

Carelessness will get them killed...or someone else killed; the sooner these transfers learn that the better. He supposes it’s easy to be careless when you come from a faction where knowledge is power or everything is black and white, where you don’t have to constantly hide who you are behind careful, well-rehearsed moves disguised as chaotic whims. Even before he chose Dauntless, he was hiding. He’ll always be hiding. The long, winding road of deceit stretches out before him, and every day is another step to keep himself and his family safe, to unlearn selflessness if it ensures his own survival.

Years ago, Oliver may have traded gray rags for black, slim-fitting clothes, but the world remains very gray, and people can still be manipulated.

Today is no different.

He came from a world of bending others to do one’s will only to enter another, different kind of conformity. If these amateurs want to survive, they will have to conform, too. If he doesn't teach them to break first, someone else much crueler than him will do it for them.

Abruptly, Oliver yanks the gun out of Curtis’s loose grip, uncocks the safety, and turns the barrel of the gun on Curtis’s head. Curtis freezes, eyes wide with panic and for once struck speechless.

“Wake up,” Oliver growls. “Is this just a game to you? Because if it is, you should leave now.” He sees the terror in the whites of Curtis’s eyes. Good. Acknowledging fear is the only way to move forward.

“I...I want to be here,” stammers Curtis.

Oliver lowers the gun. “Then act like it.”

After a moment of shock, Curtis recovers and ducks his head, clearly embarrassed. Better embarrassed than dead.

“Being prepared means you know how to fight your own fears.” Oliver raises his voice so the whole room can hear him. “Fear is a reaction. Bravery is a choice. Like being able to fire a gun at any time, under any circumstance, no matter who the target is. Hesitating is a mistake, because it gets people killed.”

Oliver ushers the rest of the group in front of a long wooden table covered in boxes of ammunition. Across the room is a row of targets. He spends the next few minutes instructing everyone on how to load, unload, and fire their weapons.

He tries not to get distracted by the head of blonde hair at the far end of the row, a golden waterfall cascading down her back over light blue fabric. But, uncontrollably, he finds his gaze drifting in that direction and lingering on her more than the others. She, like the rest of the group, has yet to change out of her former faction’s clothing. The room is a mix of blue and green and black and white.

Technically, there is no rule that can force new transfers to wear their new faction’s attire. It is a choice that has to be made by the individual, just like the choice to come here in the first place. But the unspoken accord is that if they don’t change clothes by the end of the first stage, then Dauntless leaders have the power to kick them out. So the sooner transfers embrace their new identity the better.

Megan is an astute listener. She follows his instructions perfectly, though insecurely. He sees the way she hesitates, her movements slow and unsure, while the rest of the transfers don’t. Surely an Erudite wouldn't have trouble holding all that power at their fingertips?

As he approaches, he watches her hold the gun with shaking hands, her aim wobbling. “Stop overthinking it,” he says when he’s standing behind her.

She jumps, sparing him a quick glance. The constant sound of gunfire doesn’t startle her, yet for some reason his sudden presence does. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.”

“Sorry--” she squints. “I mean, it’s just that I’ve...never fired a weapon before.”

“I can tell.”

She sighs, like she’s trying to focus on her breathing, but her hands are still timid. She keeps clenching and unclenching the handle grip.

He leans in closer. “You need to stop shaking,” he whispers, even though the haphazard stream of firing bullets protects their conversation. He hardly knows why he does it. Since when does he concern himself with protecting the feelings of a transfer? Or does his whispering come from someplace else, something to do with the strange, tickling warmth in his chest? Something almost...playful. He hasn’t felt this way since he was last teasing Thea. Just as quick, a dull ache of loss presses inside his chest, turning the memories of his sister bittersweet.

“I can’t stop. I hate these things.”

How can she hate something she’s never touched before? And why does he care? What is with him today?

“You’re not afraid, are you?”

She whips her head around to look at him, the gun dropping an inch. “No.”

He studies her crisp blue eyes, bright and inviting like a warm summer sky after weeks of frigid rain. Her face is an open book, and he reads her gnawing insecurity behind those wide, innocent eyes as though the words ‘ _help me’_ are written on her forehead. She seems so small and young and desperate. She reminds him of Thea, and something inside him aches to be near her, to protect her, even though he shouldn’t want that. Why did she come here?

The heavy passage of time creeps up on him, the weight of the other transfers’ eyes on his back. How long has he been standing next to her? The others might call his behavior favoritism, and she will be the one to feel the brute of his carelessness. He can’t have that. How dare he let himself lose focus.  

Oliver clears his throat and forces severity into his voice. “You wouldn’t survive in Candor, Megan, because you’re a terrible liar.”

She flinches, and he hates himself a little for that, for causing her undo pain in order to keep her safe, to keep her strong.

Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder and seeing all the other transfers immersed in their own training, Oliver defies all former Abnegation convention and leans in just a touch closer, invading her personal space. “It’s okay. It’s just me. Until you admit when you’re afraid, you’ll have nowhere to go.”

She licks her lips, and his eyes latch onto the movement.

“Are you afraid yet?”

When she finally looks up at him again, he sees what he was hoping for: the spark of determination. Her lips part, but at the last second, she merely nods, stopping herself from speaking the word aloud. Already she’s trying to undo Erudite habits. And there is something quietly brave about that, too.

“Well then, you need to learn to get over it. What has you so afraid, Megan?”

He shouldn’t ask; fears are a personal matter. But maybe for the first time in his life he understands what it’s like to be Erudite, because he is curious. He is curious about her, about what has her face all scrunched up, about what is causing that little crinkle to form between her eyebrows.

“Oh, I don’t know. The bullet ricocheting off a metal pipe and hitting my friend in the face?”

He fights a smile. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“I just do. Trust me. More importantly, trust yourself.”

“I can’t,” she breathes, and she sounds terrified. “Which for me is kind of new.”

He believes her. Fear itself isn’t the problem. Letting the fear take control is. The only way to fight the fear is to refuse to fail. He needs to remind her of this. “ _Can’t_ isn’t a word we use here. What happened to the girl who jumped off a roof or who ran at me yesterday, knowing you wouldn’t win?”

“She caved to peer pressure,” she mutters. Then her cheeks start to turn pink, as though she didn’t mean to reveal quite so much to him.

This tell him he’s probably hit his mark and wounded her pride a little. Good. The more weaknesses he can find and prod, the angrier she’ll become. Anger is the fastest and most powerful emotion for combating fear. It worked for him, anyway. It’s all he knows. It’s all he can offer her.

“But you still made the choice,” he reminds her, feeling more honest with himself than he has in a long time. “The only way to fight something is to face it.”

“What happens if I fail?” she asks.

“Then you keep trying until you don’t.”

With one last nod of encouragement, he leaves her alone.

Throughout the rest of the training, no matter how much he tries to fight it, his gaze continually wanders back to her, to see how she improves, to watch her stance gradually grow more confident and her aim more true. She really is a good student.

After training is over, Megan catches him at the door. “Hey, about Curtis...you weren’t really going to shoot him earlier, were you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just proving a point. Besides, we a have strict no-kill policy for transfers. Once you become a member, all bets are off.”

She chuckles once, and then after a moment goes still. “Oh, you aren’t kidding.”

“I never kid.”

“Apparently.” Her eyebrows jump up her forehead, as she bites her bottom lip.

Again, his eyes are drawn to the small but riveting movement of her lips. Whether it’s the action itself or his reaction to it that has him feeling askew, he doesn’t know. He’s not used to observing or caring about the inconsequential happenings of other people.

An uncertain beat passes between them. She looks like she has a million more questions for him, but perhaps his gruff confrontation with her earlier has put more fear into her than it helped release. Not for the first time, he wonders if his presence does the initiates more harm than good.

“So...are you still wary of using guns?” he asks.

Megan glances back at the table covered in guns and boxes of bullets, her long ponytail flipping over her shoulder. “I don’t know. I think this having-a-near-death-experience-every-day lifestyle might be growing on me.” When she looks back at him, she shrugs. “I think I kind of like it.”

Oliver isn’t surprised that yet another Erudite transfer enjoyed the mechanics of firing a gun in the end. It will be different when the target becomes a living, breathing, moving human being--even if that target comes in simulation form. But for now, he’s pleased. And apparently he’s not the only one.

Oliver watches Megan skip--yes, _skip_ \--away after her fellow transfers, taking her light with her, and leaving him alone in the dark hallway, as he prefers it.

Doesn’t he?

Then why is there a nameless part of him that wants to chase after her? To warn her not to let herself get swept away by blind optimism. Things will change again tomorrow.

But then, he knows he can’t do that to her. He can’t be the one to purposefully snuff out the hope flickering inside her. To do so would make him as cruel as Slade.

Oliver forces his body away from the direction of the transfers’ sleeping quarters and towards the simulation room.

Let the Erudite girl and her friends keep their enthusiasm, at least for tonight. Someone here ought to be enjoying themselves for the right reasons. Besides, it’s not his job to protect her. It’s only his job to prepare her. For both their sakes, he needs to remember that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter. Let me know in the comments! As always, thank you thank you for reading!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to another addition of Fearless Fridays!! Hope you enjoy this update!

The next time he sees her, she takes his breath away, and not for a good reason.

After yet another period of weapon’s training that morning and a quick breakfast, everyone returns to the large training room for the first round of hand-to-hand combat training. Shooting bullets at faceless, unmoving targets is one thing. Fighting someone close-range who is bigger or stronger or faster than you takes a different, deep-seated kind of bravery. This is where the true Dauntless will emerge, while the rest will be eliminated.

As he enters the training room, Oliver maneuvers past the loud and boisterous group of Dauntless-born initiates. He overhears Dinah bragging about letting Vince toss a few knives at an apple on her head from thirty feet away. Helena then dares her to try fifty feet.

Oliver shakes his head. The enemy of courage is complacency, so the Dauntless are always trying to one-up each other. But in reality Oliver suspects that most Dauntless are more concerned with making a spectacle of false valor than in performing the actual, quiet acts of bravery themselves. Over the years, he has gotten used to the unpredictable chaos of his new home. He’s come to appreciate the freedom that being a Dauntless offers, the ability and the reason to keep oneself in motion, rather than grow restless in the constant, oppressive stillness of Abnegation.

He has yet to grow accustomed to the incessant noise, however, the one drawback to a society built upon unrestrained boldness. The saying goes that were two or more Dauntless are gathered, there trouble will be.

“Yo, Hoss!” another Dauntless initiate hollers to Oliver from among the group. Rene. Next to him, Roy turns and nods to Oliver in greeting as well.

Oliver nods back and manages a grimace as he passes. It’s been five years, but his reputation still precedes him and has garnered him far more attention than he wants or needs from among his fellow members. The Dauntless-in-training admire him, but they shouldn’t. They wouldn’t if they knew the truth. He’s done nothing to deserve their admiration. He’s not a hero.

From the rear of the group, Oliver spots a familiar head of blonde hair and a freckled face, hardened by years of training. Sara. Whereas Oliver chose the socially degrading position of Transfer Instructor,  thanks to her ranking, Sara accepted the ever-coveted position of Dauntless-born Instructor, becoming the first transfer ever to attain the position. Being a trainer is not the most rewarding post, but being a Dauntless trainer is preferable, as the position is generally more esteemed by the Dauntless elite. Sara has made a good name for herself here, shedding the weight of their Abnegation past much more effortlessly than he has.

Finally, Oliver’s eyes drift across the room to his small assembly of transfers waiting in wary, murmuring placidity; the transfers watch the Dauntless-born initiates with wide eyes, like deer in the face of a pack of wolves. Other than at meal times, this marks the first time the Dauntless-born and the transfers have been present in the same room together. And unlike the Dauntless, his trainees maintain a safe distance from the rowdy Dauntless and each other. It’s only been a few days. They are still strangers.

His gaze is already sweeping through a sea of black, searching for that indistinguishable blonde ponytail before he’s made the conscious choice to really look for her.

Something like peace settles in his chest at the sight of her.

She’s wearing all black today, too, blending in yet still standing out.

Inexplicably, equal parts irrational warmth and disappointment mix inside him as he takes in her new wardrobe. The top she’s chosen exposes the tops of her shoulders and snuggly hugs her slim waist and highlights perfectly every lack of muscle in her petite figure. Somehow she seems both stronger and smaller at the same time.

Megan smiles a little when their eyes meet, and he has to physically restrain himself not to smile back. He can’t show favoritism. He can’t pretend this next part of training will be easy.

“Hey, Oliver.”

It shouldn't hurt so much having to break eye contact with Megan, to pull his attention away from her and towards another.

“Isabel,” he says tightly to the tall and thin Dauntless girl, with long, shiny brunette hair. There was a time not too long ago when he could have easily lost himself in her alluring gaze and purely Dauntless desires. Technically, he’s not her instructor, so a short fling wouldn’t be unethical and wouldn’t hurt anyone, least of all him. But things have changed in recent months. He’s changed. He doesn’t feel the same intrigue he once did when he looks into Isabel’s dark eyes. He doesn’t have time to be distracted like this right now. He has his mission and nothing else.

Isabel shifts her weight, brushing a chunk of hair over her shoulder flirtatiously. “So Nyssa, Maseo, and I are thinking of going roof-hopping later tonight, and I figured we could use a fourth member. Are you interested?” She asks the question like it means something more than just an invitation to go roof-hopping with her and her friends.

“Thanks, but maybe some other time.”

“Come on.” Boldly, Isabel reaches out to touch his arm, and he stiffens. “When was the last time you left the compound?”

“Couple of days, maybe.”

She shakes her head. “I know what you’re doing.”

He starts, wondering how she, of all people, could possibly have stumbled upon his secret, when he’s been so careful. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“You can’t keep shutting people out, waiting for the pain to just go away. It doesn’t work like that.”

He sighs as tentative relief floods his veins. She doesn’t know anything. She’s merely here to offer her mandatory dose of pity. He wishes she wouldn’t bother. He has no need of pity.

What kind of comfort could Isabel possibly offer him beyond empty words? Herself, apparently. And in another life, another time or place, he might’ve taken her up on that offer. But he’s been immersed in Dauntless culture long enough to recognize manipulation. She wants something from him. A relationship--if he could even venture to call it that--with her would cost him more than he would gain from it. And that is how he weighs the majority of his decisions these days, cost versus benefit. The Dauntless would say no risk, no gain. But if there is one virtuous habit that came from being born in a faction devoted to self-denial it’s this: to know when to say no to something. Or someone.

Oliver feigns a brief smile. “I appreciate that, but I’m fine.”

He takes a step back, unlocking her grip on him, and, thankfully, she lets her hand fall. “Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will.”

He won’t.

At that exact moment, the doors to the training room fly open, and Slade marches into the room, wearing arrogance like an insignia to be praised. Oliver has never been so happy for Slade to walk into a room before.

“Duty calls.” He breaks away from Isabel and moves to stand next to the transfers. He purposefully chooses the end of the line that Megan does not reside on.

“Alright, kids,” announces Slade, commanding the entire room’s attention as he marches to the center of the ring in between the two groups. “Today you will be paired against an opponent originating from a different faction. This means each Dauntless-born initiate will face off against a transfer.”

Each group on opposite sides of the ring begins murmuring to one another--the transfers in astonished horror and the Dauntless in scornful glee.

“Normally, at this stage in the training, the transfers and the Dauntless are kept separate. But this year, we have decided to shake things up a bit. This new institution will serve two purposes. First, since your rankings will be pooled together at the end of the first stage, it will allow your instructors to judge each of you more equally.”

At his side, Oliver’s fist tightens. Equally, yes. But fairly? No. Forcing a bunch of unskilled transfers to fight warriors who have been training since birth is setting one group up for success at the expense of the other group’s failure.

“Second,” continues Slade, “this approach will reveal which of you is truly Dauntless and which of you is not.”

In an ideal world, perhaps. But no faction is ideal. Even bravery comes at a price.

“Every day, your names will be listed on the chalkboard next to the opponent you will be facing. There will be three rounds of fighting altogether.”

“How long do we have to fight for?” asks Ray.

Slade turns and flashes Ray a dark smile.

“Till you can’t fight anymore!” calls Roy from across the ring. The other Dauntless initiates jeer and taunt in response, plummeting the large room into an echoing clamor.

What is meant to test the transfers, the Dauntless-born perceive as some kind of sport. What could go wrong?

“You lot might consider yourselves at a disadvantage here,” Slade tells the transfers. “But the purpose of this exercise is to teach you what these Dauntless already know: to overcome fear of pain. To overcome fear of failure.” He then shifts to address the other group in black, a new tint of pride coloring his voice. “And for our Dauntless born and bred, this exercise will teach you to overcome the sin of compassion, the sin that leads to hesitation and fear of darkness.”

Slade would view compassion as a sin, as weakness, and at times perhaps it is. Oliver doesn’t consider himself the most compassionate of individuals, but he does consider himself more compassionate than Slade. Even when it’s cost him. That’s kind of the point of compassion, isn’t it? And he can’t help it. Some Abnegation tendencies just won’t leave him. Still, Slade is right about one thing: the only way to fight the darkness is to be darkness. It’s all he knows. It’s all any of the Dauntless know.

And while it’s unfair to throw these new recruits into the fire, life is not fair. That’s a lesson Oliver learned a long time ago. He can’t knock Slade for that.

“Many of you will suffer through this, but it is the only way,” says Slade. “You chose us, now we must choose only the most worthy of you. There will be no second chances, no partial treatment, no mercy. That’s a promise.”

Slade’s dark eyes find his in the group. A flash of hate sparks behind them.

White-hot clarity sears through Oliver.

And suddenly he _knows_.

He knows Slade is doing all this--the new rules, the pairings, everything--because of him. He still hasn’t forgiven him for what happened to Shado. Well, the line forms behind him. Torturing new transfers-- _his_ transfers--is the best revenge Slade can take, since Oliver has become too valuable and, despite his best intentions, too well-known within Dauntless for Slade to try to harm him directly. While ruthlessness is generally rewarded in Dauntless, unchecked bloodlust, particularly among leaders, is considered self-destruction and a betrayal to the faction.

Slade has never accepted Oliver’s place here, but it’s not as though he can ever return to his former faction. If Oliver belongs anywhere, it’s here.

This doesn’t prevent Slade from trying to undo the very system he’s supposed to protect. He’s accepting transfers because it’s a requirement for every faction. But he’s rigging the game in favor of keeping the Dauntless intact and pure, while mercilessly sending the transfers to the factionless.

“Fight like your life depends on it,” urges Slade. “Because it does.”

With that, he waves the first pair of fighters, Ray and Roy, to march into the raised circular platform in the center of the room, illuminated by waning spotlights.

Though Ray is significantly taller than Roy, he is not as coordinated. It’s not long before Roy takes the upper-hand and keeps it, and after what must be mere minutes Ray falls and is unable get back up again.

Still reeling from the revelation of Slade’s plan, Oliver can only feign moderate interest in the next sets of pairings--Rory versus Helena, Curtis versus Isabel, Evelyn versus Dinah. Every duel is tiresomely predictable, resulting in a Dauntless victory. Evelyn and Dinah prove to be the most equally matched. Evelyn’s surprising feistiness and Dinah’s blind overconfidence prolong the fight a good ten minutes. Dinah is eventually declared the winner but only just barely.

It is the final pair of fighters that rips Oliver’s mind from the fog, making his gut clench and sending his hand twitching at his side. As Rene and Megan approach the platform, Oliver shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

He’s known Rene for years. He’s seen how reckless, how vicious he can be. Rene is a bit of thug, one of Slade’s minions being groomed to fight a war against fabricated enemies.

What is Slade thinking? Usurping Sara and Oliver’s authority by casting the first set of matches himself is something Oliver can easily brush off. But pairing off the girl with the least amount of muscle up against the strongest, most reckless Dauntless? This is something else.

Bravery is one thing. This is suicide.

And he can’t stop it.

From the side, Oliver can feel Slade’s eyes on him, gauging his reaction. In that moment, Oliver realizes he should have pushed her away sooner. From the beginning.

Whatever small interest he was beginning to feel for the blonde girl with the fiery spirit, it’s been enough to catch Slade’s attention. She’s not really even his usual type, and he’s been careful, but Slade knows him too well. Maybe all this time he’s never been as good at pretending as he hoped.

And maybe this stunt has nothing to do with her and everything to do with him. Slade is still suspicious who Oliver really is, and this is just another test to try to weed out his true nature. To see if he will defend the defenseless.

And it’s working. Oliver wants to rush up onto the platform and stop this fight before it even begins. He couldn’t care less about the outcome of the other matches, so why does he suddenly care so much about the outcome of this one?

Next to a seething Rene, Megan appears even smaller and more insecure.

“Ready to go, Blondie?” Rene taunts, raising his fits and bending his knees.

Megan adjusts her position, too, trying to mimic her opponent’s stance, though there are a dozen things wrong with her form that Oliver wants to correct.   

Rene strikes first, and even though Megan sees it coming, she doesn’t have the physical stamina to withstand that kind of blow. The sound of Rene’s fist smacking against her skin makes Oliver flinch.

Megan lets out a painful cry, and it’s a horrible, gutting sound. Her voice echoes off the rafters and inside his hollow chest. Unlike everyone else, she doesn’t hold back. She’s too real and in too much pain to care how desperate she sounds.

She barely has time to recover from the shock of the first blow before Rene hits her again, this time knocking her to the ground. Limbs scrap against concrete, and Oliver spies a streak of red along her forearm where she took the brunt of her fall.

Her arms are shaking as she struggles to push herself up into a crouch. When she manages to lift her head again, her eyes flash to his from across the room. He reads her expression as easily as an open book, her eyes clear and calling to him. He sees her agony. He sees her confusion. But he also catches a spark of stubborn determination that wasn’t there before. There is a fire within her, a quiet yet thriving kind of strength that Rene does not have.

 _Get up!_ he wants to yell at her. _Don’t let yourself become factionless._

Whatever she reads in his eyes has her lifting her chin stubbornly.

She finally pulls her gaze away and twists her body into a fragile standing position. Her jaw stays pinched, keeping a straight face against what must be an excruciating amount of pain for her.

She reminds him so very much of Thea, soft yet vibrant. She has the same challenging look in her eyes that Thea used to get anytime someone tried to stop her from disobeying the rules, or anytime she thought he was being too overprotective whenever a boy from school got too close to her. And every time he watches her fall, he’s flooded with an irrational need to protect her.

A heavy weight of conflict presses against the walls of his chest, constricting him, pinning him in place.

The longer he lingers on her the worse it gets.

Each time Rene knocks her down, she gets back up again. She never stops. She’s so much stronger than she seems. And he’s the only one who notices.

He _aches_ for her to win this fight. To do whatever it takes. He silently urges her to keep fighting, to not hold back, but she’s not equipped to handle someone of Rene’s caliber. Not yet. One day she will be. If she survives initiation. She has to survive initiation.

Every movement kicks up dust and sends particles floating in the air, shrouding her and Rene in an unholy halo.  

Megan takes a good swing at Rene, but she throws too much of her body weight into it. Yet it’s all she has. Rene dodges her move, using her outstretched arm against her. Mercilessly, he twists her forearm back the wrong way.

Megan screams.

Oliver shut his eyes.  

He can only hope Rene didn’t just break something. It will be impossible for her to make it through training tomorrow if he did. She will be factionless by morning.

The harsh sound of pounding against flesh has Oliver opening his eyes again.

What he encounters chills his veins.

Rene continues to toe the line between the bravery and brutality, kicking Megan while she lies helplessly on the ground.

He can’t do this anymore. He’s going to be sick.

“Don’t you think that’s enough?” Oliver calls to Slade over the noise, knowing he’s wearing his desperation openly, but he can’t help it. He’s powerless to stop this new kind of fear that’s come over him.

Slade merely stands next to the platform, arms crossed, looking bored. He ignores Oliver’s plea.

Itching with unleashed anger, Oliver turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him on his way out. He can’t save her, and he’s too selfish to stay on the sidelines and watch. This is not the sort of bravery he wants any part of.

He marches through the long halls of Dauntless without seeing them. He sees nothing but Megan’s body lying on the ground covered in blood.

He wants to _run_.

He wants to say _screw it_ to all the useless agony and waiting he’s been doing the past five years. He wants to run back to Abnegation right now, grab his sister and _go_. Over the wall. Into the unknown. Disappear forever.

Panting, he runs into the nearest dark alcove, throwing himself against the wall, hidden away from prying eyes. His breathing is heavy and urgent for a long time, until something like quiet resolve settles over him.

He really is a coward.

He can’t run. Not now. Not yet. Because if he makes that kind of choice again, he’ll be leaving someone else behind again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, let me know what you think in the comments. You readers are the best :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back to #FearlessFridays! Sorry I took last week off. I had family come into town, and then I had a lot of work to catch up on. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support and inquisitiveness regarding this series. I hope to eventually be able to answer some of your questions in future chapters. For now, here is the next chapter from Felicity's POV. Enjoy!

Pain.

So much pain.

Her whole body throbs like a stubbed toe, aching in places she didn’t even realize she could ache. Her head is swollen, feeling like the size of watermelon and the weight of fifty well-used hard drives. Through the fog, she struggles to lift herself up, but gentle hands press her back into the bed. She tries to fight them off, but she has no energy. She is utterly drained.

She doses in and out of a fitful sleep, listening to her own strained and shallow breaths, dreaming of ninja-kicking hard drives. 

Finally, minutes or weeks later, she wakes up, alert. And immediately wishes she were back asleep. 

Her joints are cement blocks, weighing her down, pressing her body deep into the mattress, so thin it’s hardly a mattress at all. More like a stiff blanket. And it’s not like she has any muscle or fat to support her either. She can feel the ridges of the rusty bed frame underneath and wonders if that thing that’s poking her in her lower back area is a nail or just a cracked rib or something worse. 

She gulps down a big breath, forcing her diaphragm to expand, and tilts her neck to study her lower abdomen, watching the slow, painful rise of inflating skin. When she pushes the breath out, she winces. Even her lungs feel heavy. Like she’s almost drowned and then ran a marathon after. Not that she’s ever run a marathon. But she imagines this must be what that feels like. 

Everything hurts, and most likely she is dying. She has to be dying. No one recovers from this level of affliction and walks away, right? Maybe she was accidentally hit by a truck, and she doesn’t remember that part?

Distant, mumbling voices slowly pull her out of her groggy haze, and she blinks rapidly against the blurry glaze coating her eyes. The cave-like room is so dim that it takes her a while to focus on the two figures sitting on the nearby beds next to her. Curtis and Rory. They look about as miserable as she feels. But at least they are sitting upright.

“Hey there, Punching Dummy,” teases Curtis.

“What happened?” Megan groans. 

“You took quite the hit,” says Rory. “From what I hear, anyway. I was kind of out of it...after my…”

Megan attempts a tentative smile, to offer her new friend comfort, but even that causes her to wince, as  the muscles in her cheek stretch across her sore jaw. She literally cannot move without inflicting more pain upon herself. 

What has she gotten herself into? 

In just two days, she’s gone from being the smartest person in the room to...being the weakest. She swallows--the sting of her injured pride hurts even worse than what is sure to be heavy bruising along her cheek and down her arms. No doubt she is at the bottom of the food chain after that fight. If one could call it that. There’s no way she can make it into the top ten now. Maybe coming here was a naive ambition, the dream of an only child seeking something her mother never could offer her and something her father never even wanted to give her. Maybe she’s not strong enough to be Dauntless. 

If it’s possible, her chest grows even heavier. “Guess I’m leaving,” she manages to croak. 

Even though they’re not exactly close, she has known Curtis her entire life, and it’s a little disconcerting to think about never seeing him or even Ray or any of these people again, to have to start all over again among hardened, desperate strangers, starving on the streets, begging for food and shelter most of the factions are forbidden from giving. She’s never been especially good at keeping friends.

“What are you talking about?” asks Curtis.

“I...I failed the fight.”

Rory chuckles. “In case you didn’t notice, none of us transfers did especially well. Which is why we have the day off.”

“What?”

“Yeah, Oliver told us this morning that training has been suspended until tomorrow. Guess he figured we could all use a day of rest.” Curtis shrugs.

Megan licks her lips as she processes this new information. A wave of gratefulness washes over her, but it cannot hold back the flurry of the motor inside her brain. None of the factions believes in practicing a day of rest. None save one. Abnegation. It doesn’t make any sense for a Dauntless instructor to be perpetuating an Abnegation practice. The thought of Oliver just giving all of them the day off like this seems…so very un-Dauntless-like. What on earth prompted him to do it? 

Something else Curtis mentioned finally catches up with her. “Oliver was here?” Megan squeaks. She manages to sit up this time. 

Rory nods. “You were still sleeping.”

Sheepishly, Megan feels her cheeks redden. The thought of Oliver, here, in this space, perhaps even peeking at her in her sleep is...not as creepy as she expected. Not that she’s thought about this before. Because she most certainly has not. 

It is almost comforting, in a way, to realize he stopped by to check on her. Well, not check on  _ her _ specifically but on the whole group. Still. Was it the sight of her unconscious form that made him decide to give them all a short breather? Or had he already made up his mind before he got here? Oliver doesn’t strike her as the kind of person who is easily swayed by the circumstances of others. And yet he gave all of his sad, unimpressive trainees the day off. He probably just feels sorry for them, that something that comes so naturally to him is excruciating for the rest of humanity.

Or maybe she’s reading far too much into his simple act of compassion, giving him more credit than he is due. The man probably thinks nothing of his choice. Maybe it is common practice to give the pathetic newbies a chance to recover from their first drop into hell. 

The warm spark of...whatever she was feeling moments ago fades out. Megan is suddenly itching for a mirror, to know how just how broken she is on the outside.

“Hey,” calls Evelyn, “I’m going to get a tattoo. Any of you want to come?” Though wearing some bruising of her own and walking a little stiff, Evelyn stands proudly and with a note of arrogance that Megan can’t help but admire. 

Ray and Rory both shrug, while Curtis offers, “Sure.”

And then all eyes turn towards her, every face waiting on her answer. And, somehow, in the silence she hears the support behind their stares. 

Maybe they have all been changed in the night. While the battle has only just begun, and the road to become full-fledged Dauntless is an individual journey they each must choose every day, the five of them now share something that no one else will understand. They are mutual strangers in strange land, bonded together by this first trial.

Well. She can’t let them down. And maybe in so doing, she won’t let herself down.

Slowly, Megan nods, and then Curtis and Rory help her climb out of bed. And it is a climb, as daunting as scaling the walls of the Dauntless pit seemed when she first arrived.

The black shirt and pants she picked out yesterday cling to her skin, sticky with sweat. Yet the dark ebony color makes her feel stronger. It hurts to move, to even take a full breath, but it’s better than sitting all alone in the dark feeling sorry for herself. And if she’s going to be leaving tomorrow, she might as well try to enjoy her last day pretending this is home.  

Leaving the transfer sleeping area to go exploring, the five of them look like they just fought a war. Weak. Wounded. Hobbling. Defeated. What a sight they must make. Are they stronger for what they’ve endured, or are their injuries just an outward depiction of their inward infirmities? She can feel the eyes of the residential Dauntless following her every step, assessing her posture for any marks of bravery she doesn’t feel. May never feel. By nature, the Dauntless are not as curious as the Erudite, but that doesn’t make them any less critical. It is human nature to look for the weaknesses in others to make yourself feel tougher. You don’t have to be Dauntless to learn that.

Along the way to the tattoo parlor, they have to cross a bridge that passes over a wide cavern, with a waterfall on one side. 

While the rest of the group goes ahead, Megan lingers on the bridge, drawn to the loud cascade of water for reasons she can't explain. And that's a new sensation for her. Not understanding her own mind. This place is making her question everything.

The roar of rushing water is relaxing. The noise drowns out the echoes of squeaking, uncertain feet against stone. It drowns out everything but her and the boisterous water. And for a moment, it’s nice to be alone with her thoughts, to pretend that she’s back in a quiet, isolated Erudite lab. 

But when she closes her eyes, instead of retreating back to that fond place of childhood tinkerings and Erudite civil normalities, all she can see is the irrational anger behind Rene’s eyes; all she can feel is hard fists crushing her rib cage. 

Megan flinches at the memory of the sting of concrete scraping against her skin. She touches her elbow, rubbing the bumpy red marks, the evidence of her fall, studying with meticulous care the way the topography of her body has been altered. Her fingertips trace the pattern of raised red pebbles that travel up from her elbow to her shoulder. She sort of understands why Evelyn wants to get a tattoo now. If she’s going to get marked by something, the marking might as well be her choice.

She replays the fight in her mind over and over again, torturing herself with empty ‘what if’s’ and ‘what might have beens’. She doesn’t understand what happened. It was like her brain wanted one thing, but then her reflexes were incapable of carrying out the action. She was never this uncoordinated when it was just her and her computers. 

In the middle of the fight, she’d tried to remember everything Oliver had taught her, but in the heat of the moment with her opponent in the flesh staring her down, adrenaline pumping through her veins, making her shake, she just kind of...froze up. 

She’s no fighter.

She’s no Dauntless.

What is she  _ doing _ here? Is getting answers really worth risking her life every day? 

_ Yes,  _ her heart sings. 

And if situation wasn’t bad enough, if drowning in her own weakness wasn’t humiliating enough, knowing that everyone else  _ knows _ how bad of a fighter she is is even more degrading. 

Even from her position on the floor, even as her vision started getting spotty and darkening, she saw the way those Dauntless girls were looking at her. She saw the sneer in Slade’s eyes. 

Mostly, though, she wishes she could erase from her mind the haunting picture of watching Oliver turn and walk out of the room away. The one person who is supposed to care about her ranking couldn’t be bothered to watch the outcome of her first fight. Probably because it’s her only fight. 

Why did he leave? Is she so pathetic she wasn’t worth his staying? 

That’s kind of the story of her life, isn’t it? No man considers her worth the effort. 

Well, she’s tired of feeling this way. Tired of waiting for someone to tell her that she’s worth something. She has to make herself worth something all on her own. All over again.

She became the fastest hacker in Erudite. 

She can become a true Dauntless. She has to stay here. She has to fight back. She won’t let herself become her mother, receiving favors out of pity. 

Her initial reasons for coming here might be different than everyone else’s, but she jumped into that net same as everybody else. And there’s a part of her, a bigger part than she’d like to admit, that kind of liked it. That liked the rush of the jump onto the train and the dive into the great unknown. Something dark and deep inside her heart has awakened since she made her choice. Something that craves the excitement of the chaos. 

It’s like a switch goes off inside her.

One moment, she’s holding back a tide of emotions. And the next, she lets it all out, anger and fear and hurt and frustration all come rushing and roaring through her veins like the waterfall beneath her feet. 

She’s angry at Slade for setting her up for failure. 

She’s angry at Rene for being so unnecessarily vicious. 

She’s angry at Oliver for leaving her to fend for herself. Even if it’s his job to do so. 

And she’s angry at her father for abandoning her and her mom and leaving her to make this kind of choice in the first place. 

But mostly...she’s just angry with herself. For not being strong enough. 

Her heart races with the onslaught of it all, and her limbs start to shake. Her fingers tighten on the bridge railing to keep herself steady. 

Up until now, she’s been really been allowed to be too emotional. Everything in Erudite was rational and balanced. The only physical activity she’d ever participated in before now was always directly tied to exercise and enhancing her mental faculties. Whereas Erudite care mostly about brain power, these people-- _ her _ people now, apparently--seem to care only about brawn. And while the chances of her being the most intelligent person in the room at any given movement just went up by at least a factor of ten, she’s suddenly feeling like the runt of the litter.  

_ Had all you can take, Blondie? _

Her grip on the railing tightens, as the cold metal sears into her palms.

Yeah, she has blonde hair. And yeah, she’s been called worse nicknames than that before. But it was the  _ way _ Rene said it. Like he could tell she was afraid just by the color of her hair.

Well, not anymore.

She can be angry, too. 

With a burst of satisfaction, she’s all the more glad she had the foresight to go by a different name. While she is still getting used to thinking of herself as Megan, the name her mom gave her would be unsuitable here. The rule-following IT girl who loved the color blue no longer exists. Megan is who she became as soon as she struck her palm with that knife and raised her hand over the flaming bowl at the Choosing Ceremony. 

Megan sounds stronger. Maybe Megan can be braver, too. She has to be brave if she’s going to stay here, after all.

By the time she catches up with her fellow transfers, Curtis is in the middle of getting a tattoo of the Dauntless flame on his back.

Apparently, for some, being brave means decorating one’s body in all forms of piercings and tattoos. 

Megan bites her lower lip as she takes in all the exotic displays--dark clothes, dark makeup, wigs, hundreds of small drawings, samples of tattoos come and gone, plastered on all the walls. The idea of getting a piercing does intrigue her, but at the moment she is still in far too much pain to consider adding to it intentionally. Yet she is craving some kind of change, something to reaffirm this newfound desire for self-preservation.  

Megan studies the art painted on the walls for a while, wondering what kind of Dauntless would choose which kind of tattoos. Tucked in the far corner of small shop is a row of bottles filled with different colored liquids, varying shades of gray and black and brown. Her heart kicks into a faster gear as she realizes what they are.

Every color has a meaning, sending both the wearer and the observer a subliminal message. Isn’t that why every faction wears a different color?

The Dauntless wear black, which makes them appear braver.

Brave is black.

Black is brave.

She’s not the same girl she was before the jump. She can’t be that person again even if she wanted to be. And she doesn’t want to be. But neither does she want to end up like Rene or, God forbid, Slade, always ruthless. There must be another way for her to belong here. She just has to find it. 

As soon as the Dauntless tattoo artist finishes with Curtis, she approaches Megan. A zing runs through her as she recognizes the woman as the one who administered her aptitude test. What are the chances? 

“Hello. So you decided to go with Dauntless after all?”

Megan nods, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Mm-hmm.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you again, Feli--”

“Megan,” she blurts. “I go by Megan now. And you’re Nyssa, right?”

“Correct.” Nyssa smiles. “This is less important choice, but have you made up your mind about what you’re getting today?”

“Yep.” Secretly, Megan itches to ask Nyssa about the bottles of hair dye, but maybe it’s too soon to do something so drastic to her appearance. Maybe it’s safer to go with something a touch more subtle. Something that can help her hide her insecurities but not drawn unwanted attention. She wants to be Dauntless--she does--but she’s not quite ready to be  _ that _ Dauntless. Not yet anyway. Maybe one day she’ll get there. She has to prove herself first.

Megan studies Nyssa’s long black hair and then lingers on her heavy eyeliner. She twists her body to point to the gobs of makeup she saw when she first walked into the shop. 

Makeup was never forbidden in her old faction, not like in Abnegation, but Erudites hardly put much concern into their outward appearance--beyond looking pristine and tidy, anyway. Neither did makeup carry the same weight it seems to carry here, as a symbol of power, as a tool to cover your injuries--both on the inside and the outside. 

Just looking at Nyssa and pretty much every other Dauntless who’s passed her in the hall today, Megan feels intimidated, by the sharpness in their cheekbones, highlighted with shades of red, or the alluring and also disturbing cat-like shape of their eyes.

It’s intoxicating. She craves some of that power. 

“Some purple eye shadow and mascara and the blackest eyeliner you have, please.”

Even if she can’t be strong, at least this way maybe she can pretend to be. Maybe this will make her strong. Maybe this at last is the way for her to find her edge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one :)


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